Chapter 87 Right into my heart
Vuk Kael Laskovic
The night sky stretched black and indifferent above the estate, stars half-hidden behind city haze.
I leaned against the balcony railing, cigarette between my fingers, the ember glowing brighter with each slow drag. Smoke curled upward like a question I hadn’t answered yet.
My mind was a storm of half-formed thoughts—pack business, border, the endless calculus of power. And underneath it all, her.
Then my phone buzzed against the stone railing.
Caller ID: Little Moon
I answered before the second ring.
A soft, bubbly giggle filled the line.
“Maureen.”
Another giggle, brighter this time. Gods, that sound—it hit me low in the gut, familiar and dangerous.
“Hi, handsome.”
Her voice was syrup-slow, words bumping into each other. Drunk. Very drunk.
I froze mid-drag. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m elevated,” she corrected proudly, like it was a promotion. “Very… elevated.”
My cigarette dropped. I crushed it under my boot without looking. “Stay put.”
I was already moving—grabbing keys from the hall table, checking her location pin. A club. A fucking club. She’d said “girls’ night movie.” Not this.
“You’re bossy tonight,” she teased, voice lilting. “I like it.”
“Maureen.” My tone dropped, the one that usually made her shiver in the best way.
“Hmm?”
“Thank the gods I have your location on.” I slammed the front door behind me, strides eating up the driveway.
She gasped dramatically. “Stalker!”
“For safety,” I growled, softer than I meant to. “Do. Not. Move. I’m coming.”
“You love me.”
“More than anything.”
“I’m pretty.”
“You’re everything.”
A pause, then her voice turned playful again. “And you’re… jealous.”
“Of?”
“Everything that looks at me.”
I exhaled slow through my nose, already sliding into the driver’s seat. Engine roared to life. Iron gates swung open as I floored it. “Stay there. Please.”
She mumbled something incoherent—half-word, half-giggle—and the call ended.
My hands tightened on the wheel. Not anger. Fear. Sharp, unfamiliar fear. Little moon wasn’t built for this—liquor hit her like a freight train, turned her soft heart into something raw and spilling. I just hoped she hadn’t spilled too much yet.
The club’s neon sign bled purple and red across the street. I parked crooked, didn’t care.
Inside, the bass slammed into me like a physical thing—sweat, perfume, too many scents warring for dominance. But hers cut through it all. Sweet moonflower and honey, edged with tequila and distress.
I followed it like a blood trail.
Alley side door. There she was—bent over, hands on knees, dry-heaving while Nyxara rubbed her back in guilty circles. Nyxara’s eyes snapped to me first. Guilt written all over her face. Her idea, then. The club. The drinks.
I stepped forward, wrapped my fingers around Maureen’s wrist—gentle, but firm enough she’d feel me.
She jerked back instinctively, swaying, eyes glassy and defiant.
“I have a husband,” she announced to the stranger who wasn’t even there, voice proud and wobbly.
Nyxara winced. “Alpha Vuk—”
Maureen pointed vaguely at me, squinting. “My husband… is more handsome than you.”
I almost laughed. Almost.
“Really?” I asked, voice low, amused despite everything.
“Yes…” She nodded solemnly, then her face crumpled. “He’s so handsome but…”
“But what?” I prompted, softer now.
“I think… he wants another wife…”
The words landed like a blade between ribs. Not because they were true—gods, they weren’t—but because she believed them. Enough to cry about it in a filthy alley.
“He said that?” I asked quietly.
She nodded, tears spilling over.
Before she could say more, I scooped her up—bridal style, easy as breathing. Her arms looped around my neck automatically, face pressing into my throat.
Nyxara opened her mouth—probably an apology.
I shot her one look. Not angry. Just done.
“Next time,” I said evenly, “you call me before the fifth drink.”
She nodded fast.
Maureen nuzzled closer, lips brushing my neck in sloppy, drunken kisses. “Mmm… you smell like home. And smoke. And… sexy.”
I carried her through the alley, past the thumping bass, to the car. She kept kissing—neck, jaw, whatever skin she could reach. Tiny, affectionate presses that made my chest ache.
I settled her in the passenger seat, buckled her in like she was glass.
“Where are you taking me?” she mumbled, blinking up at me with those huge, trusting eyes.
“Back home, little moon.”
“Home!!!” she echoed, delighted, like I’d promised the moon itself.
She smiled—big, sloppy, heartbreaking—and lunged forward to hug me around the middle. Then, without warning, she flopped sideways, head landing in my lap as I pulled onto the road.
Within seconds, she was out. Soft snores. One hand curled possessively around my thigh.
I drove one-handed, the other stroking her hair in slow, steady passes. The city lights blurred past. Every few minutes she’d mumble in her sleep—funny, disjointed things that cracked me open.
“Ceiling lady… nooo… don’t spin…”
“Don’t want another… only you… big growly wolf…”
“Vuk… you’re my favorite husband…”
I swallowed hard. Kept driving.
Back at the estate, I carried her inside—still asleep, still clinging. Up the stairs, into our room. The lamp cast soft gold across the bed.
I laid her down gently. She stirred just enough to whine when I tried to pull away.
“Stay…”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I peeled off her shoes first. Then the dress—careful, reverent. She giggled in her half-sleep when the fabric whispered over her skin.
“Tickles…”
“Shh, moon. Let me take care of you.”
I wiped her face with a warm cloth, brushed her teeth (she pouted but opened like a baby bird), changed her into one of my shirts—the black one she always stole. It swallowed her, sleeves dangling past her fingertips.
She looked tiny. Perfect. Mine.
When I slid into bed beside her, she immediately burrowed into my chest, leg thrown over mine, face pressed to my heartbeat.
“Love you,” she whispered, barely audible. “Even if you want… more wives… I’ll fight them…”
I wrapped both arms around her, tight enough she’d feel it even in dreams.
“Never,” I murmured into her hair. “There’s only you. Always you.”
She sighed, content, already drifting deeper.
I stayed awake longer than I should have—watching her breathe, feeling the steady thump of her heart against mine. The fear from earlier ebbed, replaced by something fiercer. Protective. Devoted.
Eventually the sky outside the curtains turned the soft gray of pre-dawn. I slipped out of bed carefully, tucking the blankets around her shoulders. She whined at the loss of warmth but didn’t wake.
Downstairs, the kitchen was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge. I moved on instinct—pulled chicken bones from the stock, carrots, ginger, garlic. The soup came together fast: rich, salty, laced with enough black pepper to cut through the hangover haze. While it simmered, I filled the deep tub in our bathroom with steaming water, added the lavender and eucalyptus salts she loved, the ones that always made her sigh like she was melting.
By the time the sky bled pale pink, everything was ready.
I knelt beside the bed, brushed hair from her face.
“Hey, baby,” I murmured, voice low enough not to jar her. “Come have a hot bath.”
Her eyes cracked open—puffy, bloodshot, miserable. “My head hurts…”
“I know, I know.” I slid one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. She was limp, trusting, letting me lift her like she weighed nothing. “I’ve got you.”
She buried her face in my neck as I carried her to the bathroom. The steam hit us both; she inhaled shakily.
“Smells nice…”
“Only the best for my moon.”
I set her on the edge of the tub, tested the water with my wrist—perfect. Then I helped her out of my oversized shirt, slow and careful. She shivered when the cool air touched her skin. I guided her in, one foot at a time, until she was submerged to her shoulders.
She sighed—long, broken, relieved.
I knelt beside the tub, rolled up my sleeves, and started washing her. Gentle. Methodical. Suds over her shoulders, down her arms, careful around the faint bruises from last night’s grip on the railing. She leaned her head back against the porcelain, eyes half-closed.
“I’m sorry…” she whispered.
“No.” I cupped water over her hair, let it stream down. “It’s okay.”
“You’re disappointed, aren’t you?” Her voice cracked. “I’m not the perfect Luna… A royal wife shouldn’t get drunk or go to a clubhouse or… or cry in alleys. I embarrassed you.”
I paused, hands stilling in her hair.
“Stop, baby.” I tilted her chin so she had to look at me. “You’re royalty yourself. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be mine. And you are. Always.”
Her lip trembled. Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks, mixing with bathwater.
I leaned in, kissed them away—one by one.
“Now hold on for me,” I said softly. “Let me finish.”
She nodded, small and trusting.
When the water started to cool, I lifted her out—wrapped her in the biggest, softest towel we owned. Dried her slowly: arms, back, legs, every inch like she was something sacred. She swayed a little, still half-asleep, half-hungover.
I carried her back to the bedroom, sat her on the edge of the bed while I pulled one of her favorite oversized sweaters over her head—no bra, no fuss, just soft fabric against skin. Then loose cotton shorts. She looked small, fragile, unbearably precious.
Downstairs again—this time with her cradled against my chest.
I settled her at the kitchen island, propped on a stool with a blanket around her shoulders. The soup was still hot. I ladled it into her favorite wide bowl, set it in front of her with a spoon and a glass of electrolyte water.
“Eat slow,” I told her. “Small bites.”
She managed a few spoonfuls, eyes closing in bliss at the warmth. “This is so good… you’re so good to me…”
I stood between her knees, one hand rubbing slow circles on her back while she ate. When she started to flag—spoon drooping—I took over. Fed her gently, one spoonful at a time, wiping her mouth with my thumb when a drop escaped.
Halfway through the bowl she pushed it away weakly.
“Full… wanna sleep again.”
I didn’t argue.
Up the stairs once more—her head lolling against my shoulder, arms loose around my neck. I laid her back in bed, tucked the covers tight, kissed her temple.
“Sleep, little moon. I’ll be right here.”
She caught my wrist before I could pull away.
“Stay?” Barely a whisper.
“Always.”
I slid in beside her. She immediately curled into me—face to my chest, leg thrown over mine, hand finding its usual spot over my heart.
Within minutes her breathing evened out again—deep, peaceful.
I stayed awake a while longer, fingers tracing lazy patterns on her back.